


twist your arrow through my ribs

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Friends to Lovers, Gore, M/M, Mutual Pining, Patricide, Regicide, Torture, Vampire Hubert von Vestra, War, there will be no positive male parental figures in this somber tale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 16:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21200990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: WARNING: This first chapter mostly consists of graphic, inhumane acts of torture involving bodily fluids and a Big Moment at the end. Regicide is rarely civil. I promise after this, there will be no more of this upsetting exposition.Though I’m not holding back from disturbing imagery related to war, overthrowing of monarchs or eventual vampiric turning. This stuff is NOT for the faint of heart!This is pretty much a prequel to my other vampire fic.





	twist your arrow through my ribs

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This first chapter mostly consists of graphic, inhumane acts of torture involving bodily fluids and a Big Moment at the end. Regicide is rarely civil. I promise after this, there will be no more of this upsetting exposition.
> 
> Though I’m not holding back from disturbing imagery related to war, overthrowing of monarchs or eventual vampiric turning. This stuff is NOT for the faint of heart!
> 
> This is pretty much a prequel to my other vampire fic.

Last of all, they come for Hubert.

They drag him, the son of the Vampyre queen and a commoner, by the scruff of his neck through the sunken castle moat. By now, he’s forsaken his base nature in favour of a demented, hunted frown, translucent eyes stunningly vacant, bewitching mirrors.

He watches them punt his mother between them up ahead, the village men, beery, guffawing as they parade their captives through the market square. 

An emaciated vagrant, half their teeth punched out, laughs shrilly as they dump a splintered bucket of piss over Hubert’s head. His eyes stinging, Hubert’s gaze narrows to glittering pinpoints as he watches his mother buckle under the weight of fermented shit smeared into her hair, across her face, down her thinly clothed back.

“Get a move-on, pissfucker,” someone says, ramming the muddied sole of their boot against Hubert’s ass. He dare not think on the origin of this name, lest he deplete his strength safely in reserve. Instead he spits, his aim true, earning him a backhanded blow to the jaw; blood sluices out, stopping him dead.

Someone cries out, momentarily ripping him from his trance. He lunges against the cruel grip of his restraints when a familiar head of twitching firelight storms through the jeering crowd, cautious determination hardening his mouth, something vivid and shaking in his eyes.

“_Ferdinand,” _and Hubert’s captor hits him again, a damning blow, hard enough to blur his nightmares into intangible phantoms. His muscles spasming, he slams against his fastened restraints, grunting at the scratch of cumbersome knots scraping his wrists. He could’ve shredded them with his teeth if not for his captor, himself hauling Hubert up and up by the back of his neck so that his bare feet might skid along the gutted earth.

Dark, bile churning up his throat, Hubert turns his head forward as the men bypass Ferdinand, but not his mare. Slowly, whispering a gentle, incantatory melody, Hubert locks on the chestnut mare’s heavy, ponderous gaze.

And then she’s gone, swept up into the maddening fray; he might have imagined her altogether.

He hears jubilant howls of triumph. This, then, is where he will die. Hubert watches the men shove his mother down, knees buried in the dark earth, her once envied tresses of curls coated in dried, foul excrement. Hubert’s captor throws him down beside her, ramming his boot into Hubert’s stomach, forcing him to straighten his posture in an effort to greet the fall of an empire with dignity.

Far below them, misted avalanches of mountains vanish into ethereal apparitions along the sheer cliffside. Many times, Hubert and Ferdinand have strode here, laughing, singing through cherished ballads, writing their own on stolen scripture. Fondly, he dwells in fleeting imaginings or tucking Ferdinand’s hair behind his ear, slowly pulling Ferdinand’s riding gloves free, writing Ferdinand letters in the castle’s servant’s quarters, waiting for him to bring his daily allotment of bread for their children…

_ No more of this._

Spitting, he rights himself on his knees before he can turn away from the hollowed visage of his father. He’s evolved into a living corpse️, this once towering devil, pinched parchment accentuating greying cheekbones, mouth discoloured, trembling, sweat rimming his forehead despite standing barefoot in the deathly chokehold of winter. 

“She birthed no child from me,” he says, his gaze fixed on Hubert.

“You do not think on your words!”

Startling, Hubert twists to gaze over his shoulder, watching Ferdinand stride forward as though he hovers outside of himself, far above this troubling tableau, his heart pummeling out a deadening crescendo.

His father, with a soundless momentum Hubert recognises, steers himself towards Ferdinand before choking him through one rollicking tremor, mumbling incoherently as he leads him to the edge of the cliffside.

In retrospect, Hubert’s surprised that this alone spurns him on. 

Beside him, his mother says, “_Save _ him;_” _Hubert dare not dwell on whom she might mean.

With an inhuman urgency, his arms shred through the rough lining of rope. He snatches the back of his captor’s handwoven tunic, snarling as he smashes his head into that of his mother’s assailant, liver-spotted hands still reeking of dung.

Approaching his father, Hubert slows his step, remembering to muffle his imprint upon the earth with the tools at hand. Often enough, he’s up behind Ferdinand, covering his eyes before softly revealing his identity into the crook of Ferdinand’s neck (Ferdinand usually guesses through exasperated sighs, anyway).

But Ferdinand need not guess now, not with Hubert frothing in a livid, boiling rage behind his father.

Thrusting him upward by the waist, Hubert twists at an impossible angle before hurling his father down the cliffside’s sheer drop.

Gasping, he collapses to his knees, staring between his spasming fingers. 

He hears himself say, “How might you think of me now, Ferdinand?”

There’s no time to hear his response; Ferdinand snatches his wrist, panting as he barrels through the now chillingly subdued gathering of men, practically launching Hubert atop his mare before galloping deep into the wandering midwinter forest. 

His mother’s howl haunts him as he crushes his head against Ferdinand’s cloak.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project (including the LLF Comment Builder), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates responses, including:  
Short comments  
Long comments  
Questions  
“<3” as extra kudos  
Reader-reader interaction  
This author replies to comments.


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